Dies Irae
by Crossroad Avarice
Summary: In order to track down Sev Fel and Staffan Stenzke, Vaz and Naomi are forced to go undercover, searching for the right connections that will bring them to Sev Fel and Staffan Stenzke. But nothing ever goes as it should, and one slip-up can cost them dearly. Vaz/Naomi; Post-Thursday War


**Rila:** So hey there! Been a while. I was away on a camping trip — lots and lots of fun, sans the bug bites and sunburn. And a woman drowned in the lake on Saturday. I apparently slept through all that chaos of four sheriff cars and an ambulence — my family and I believe it's foul play, but the official toxicology (the husband and wife apparently seemed drunk prior to launching their boat) and autopsy report has yet to be released. Prayers are still going out for that poor woman's family...*clears throat* anyway, I had _Hollow Men_ and this and _Reasons to Burn_ and a collab — tl;dr: I've been busy on the muse front. This, however, splayed itself like one of my cats across my brain. So, my attempts to update — I say _attempts,_ as I have no day off this week and one of the days next week has already been claimed by the state museum **[1]** — will go as follows!

_Hollow Men_ [Double update; I split it into two parts]

_Reasons to Burn_

_No Light_

_Radioactive_

_aaaannd a bunch of other stuff that hasn't even been outlined yet (and a sporking for Final Fantasy that I've yet to really get on the road despite months of planning)_

And because I realize that's a bit tl;dr? Summary — busy busy, trying to do my best at updating when I can. **[1]:** See profile for explanation.

Disclaim: I would so love it if Halo 5 was based (at least in the same 'verse) as the Kilo-Five novels. There was a brief glimpse of Naomi in that Halo Legends movie, but whaaaaat that was like six seconds and she was obviously in her twenties that's not the Naomi I know

Word Count: 1,513

* * *

A storm.

That was it felt like to Vaz. Or at least the prelude to one. It wasn't that the cigarette-stale air was thick and oppressive like the prelude to an actual storm — it was more in the way that he could just _feel_ it building. The fingers of his left hand curled and uncurled where they rested on his leg, his right hand occupied by a bottle of beer that he'd hardly touched. It was stale; but that had no bearing on it. He just couldn't bring himself to take a sip, even though he knew he'd need it sooner or later. A good drink couldn't make things better, but it sure as hell made things easier to handle.

Perhaps, with that line of thinking, he should have coaxed Naomi into taking the bottle that Spenser had offered her. But he didn't and she sat in a beat-up recliner just a few feet away, arms folded over her chest and her head tilted back. Were she anyone else, Vaz might have thought her to be sleeping. But she wasn't anyone else, and Vaz knew she wasn't sleeping. Though her head didn't move, he still felt the occasional weight of someone watching him, though the brief feeling would disappear before he could return the look.

Vaz shifted in his seat, struggling to find something to say. He'd never been very good with comforting girls, and he hadn't seen the point in trying to perfect it after Chrissie had left him. But then again, he hadn't counted on meeting a Spartan, or feeling so protective of said Spartan. But it was hard not to in the wake of what she'd been through in the past couple of weeks. She'd gone from looking like the formidable Baba Yaga to a woman who'd been through things that would drive normal people into a padded cell, straight jacket included.

But she wasn't normal. She'd been brought up in a very different way than Vaz had, and it showed. From her above average height to the compact muscles that hugged her limbs, it was clear that Naomi was not — and had never been — meant to lead a normal life. He couldn't even say that she could have if she hadn't been through what she had — from what he'd read of her file, it would have been frustratingly unfufilling for a one-in-a-million kid like Naomi to lead that type of life. And he couldn't see her doing it, either.

He couldn't envy her. And how could he, knowing what he did now? It'd been fine when she'd just been another helmeted face amongst the group that UNSC glorified as "single handedly" winning the war. But now that he knew the face behind that helmet — knew the _woman_ behind the armor — it was so much different. He felt sorry for her. Not the sort of condescending remorse, but a genuine regret for all the things she'd endured. And if he thought too much about why she'd been through all of that, the remorse turned to anger. Not towards Naomi, but towards the woman responsible for it all.

Doctor Catherine Halsey.

Vaz wasn't sure he'd ever stop regretting his decision to take BB's advise and leave Halsey to Osman and Admiral Parangosky. He wasn't sure that the anger would ever disappear, that he would ever feel regret for how _badly_ he'd wanted to step into Halsey's room and shoot her. There were limits to what people could do, and just because there was a war to fight didn't mean that changed. It made him angry even now, thinking of all the _monsters_ in history that someone could have stopped — but didn't.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth that he'd been so _close_ to doing it and then stopped.

He sighed and lifted his hand, rubbing at his temple.

"Trying to sort out all the good and the bad?" Spenser's voice broke the silence as he strode into the crowded little basement, stepping over a snake's wedding of cables to get to his seat. Sinking down into it with a sigh of satisfaction, he tipped his nearly empty bottle at Vaz. "UNSC discourages that sort of thinking. We're more of a gray area."

"So I've noticed," Vaz muttered and sat up. "Any news on Sev Fel?" A part of him said he was skirting around saying Staffan's name lest it upset Naomi, but she'd never been the type to display her emotions publicly. Or at least deliberately — he'd gotten good at reading her expressions, and he could now tell when something bothered her on an emotional level and when it didn't. There was a twist of her lips, a flicker of something in her eyes — and then it was gone, no doubt thanks to her training. Vaz could understand that much — it came with living inside a helmet with a mirrored visor, a part of the psychology required to be efficient. ODSTs couldn't go on crying jags just because they didn't land where they had meant to — and neither could Spartans.

Spenser shook his head and exhaled again, though it was a noise of frustration this time. "Bastard's a slimy one. I know that Stenzke was with him, but did you see anyone else?"

Vaz shook his head and Spenser's brow furrowed. "Damn it. On the bright side, we've got active tabs on Stenzke now that we know he's chummy with Sev Fel." Here he glanced at Naomi, who simply stared back, expression blank. "Are you alright with this?"

"I'm fine," she replied, "I haven't seen him since I was six. There's no need to worry that I've compromised my loyalty." There was an edge to her voice at the end, as though she were challenging them to think so.

"That wasn't what he was hinting at," Vaz answered. "No one thinks you're going to turn on us, Naomi. It's just a lot for someone to handle." He wanted to say more; to tell her that it was alright to let a little pain show, let them know that it bothered her. But he didn't, and she said nothing more as she stood, striding out of the room. Spenser drained his beer and shook it before standing.

"I'm going to get another drink."

Left alone in silence, Vaz exhaled and brought the bottle to his lips. The bitterness of the stale beer made him want to cringe, but he swallowed anyway, sloshing the remains around in the bottle before he leaned back, closing his eyes. _It was so much easier when we were just provoking the hinge-heads. Better for Naomi, too._ She hadn't known what had happened after her kidnapping back then, or that her father had escaped before Sansar was glassed. But now, as Mal had told him once, the cat was out of the bag.

_This just gets better and better._


End file.
